


Criminality and Seduction

by DictionaryWrites



Series: Patron Minette Week 2013 (1-7 Dec) [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-02
Updated: 2013-12-02
Packaged: 2018-01-03 05:39:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1066431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A 4/1 fic - four times Combeferre had an irritating encounter with a criminal in Paris, and one time the encounter was less irritating and more intoxicating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Criminality and Seduction

**1**

"Remi Thénardier, at your most  _humble_  service!" The drunkard said as he swayed in the bar, and Combeferre blinked at him, recognizing the name and remembering the girl that occasionally trailed after Marius, entering the Musain and staying a while before Enjolras insisted she go. 

"Thénardier? You've no relation to Éponine?"

"My darling daughter!" The man proclaimed, and he brought his bottle up to the air. According to Éponine, Remi Thénardier considered her anything  _but_  darling, but Combeferre made no argument or protestation: such a thing would be impertinent to say the least, even if this man was a criminal. "But alas, sir, we are poor!"

Combeferre had heard stories of this man's spiel, and had heard of how any coins placed in his palm would make their way to the bottle or to decadence, and never to his wife and children. 

He tried to shake the man off, and didn't succeed for a good hour - when he finally made his way home, he was scowling for it.

**2**

"You've nice teeth, sir!" A man proclaimed to Combeferre in the street one day, and the doctor raised his eyebrows.

"Thank you." He said dryly, and moved to continue onwards, but the man caught his arm.

"I'd give you a franc and fifty centimes for one, sir, a lucky price!"

"No, thank you." Combeferre said politely, and he moved to make his way on.

"A bust then, sir? Or a portrait of our head of state?" Combeferre bit his tongue to keep himself from biting at this man. 

"What is your name, sir?"

"Babet, sir."

"Then Babet, I would request you leave me be: I have no wish for your services."

"No wish for a humble chemist, sir?" The man wheedled. 

"No, sir." Combeferre said firmly, close to losing his temper, and he walked on at something of a trot, eager to get away. 

**3**

Combeferre was late for his classes, and he ran through the streets of Paris with a fervour, his usually perfect hair dishevelled, his glasses askew, his cravat improperly tied, and he cradled books under his arm as he moved.

"Hal _lo_."

"Excuse me, sir, I-" Combeferre tried to rush past the man, but he caught the medical student's shoulder, holding him back. He was dark-skinned, exceedingly tall and grinning with white teeth, and Combeferre wrenched his arm from the other's hold. "I am late for my classes, sir, I'm merely a student, if you would just permit me passage-"

"I shan't do no such thing. My names  _Gueulemer_." He said this with a sort of pride, and Combeferre stared up at him with an open mouth. 

"Are you  _dull_ , man? I have a class, I'm already late,  _please_ -" And Combeferre tried to pass him again, but the alley was narrow and the criminal had no problem in stopping him short once again.

"You can go another way if you're going to be rude." The man said sharply, and Combeferre stared up at him.

"I meant no harm, if you'd just-"

"Go around." The man sang in a teasing tone, rolling back and forth on his heels, and Combeferre growled a sharp, profane curse before turning on his heel and running to do so.

**4**

"If you'd unhand my watch." Combeferre said dryly, his hand firmly catching the pick-pocket's with a strong grasp, and the thief hummed, apparently amused.

"Not many feel my hand." He spoke in the oddest of throaty rasps, his voice low, and Combeferre plucked his pocket watch back, dropping it into his inside pocket.

"I am sensitive, it would seem." He turned to face this man, and was taken aback, peering at him. They were around the same height, but this man had a mask of varnished black mahogany hiding his face from the world and from Combeferre, and the medical student blinked at him, baffled. 

"Do pick-pockets play at masquerade now?"

"This one does." Combeferre made no call for the police. Many committed crime because no other path was made available to them, and Combeferre knew this well, and was sympathetic. 

"What is your name?" Combeferre asked, fascinated.

"What is yours?" And this was an odd dance, a dalliance, but Combeferre played.

"Combeferre."

"Your given name."

"Émile." The thief gave another, thoughtful hum, and then he returned, "Claquesous." There was a noise in the square, and Combeferre turned his head to look. It was barely a glance, but when he looked back, the masked thief was gone, and Combeferre looked around wildly for him, but he could catch no glance of him amongst the crowd.

He sighed, and made his way onwards.

**5**

Combeferre had just bought a bouquet of flowers for his mother when he entered the Corinthe, and he cradled them as he stepped amongst the men within, searching for his friends. He spied Courfeyrac and Bahorel and moved forwards, dipping to murmur to the former that he would be visiting with his mother tomorrow, and thus would not be available until evening.

Courfeyrac nodded, and he kissed Combeferre's cheek - Combeferre noted with a fond smile that his own cheeks were red with drink. "And how are you, my friend Bahorel?"

Bahorel grunted, not tearing his eyes away from the next table over, where Prouvaire was laughing with some dandily dressed gentleman, wearing the other man's tophat. His cheeks were rosy, his hands gesticulating wildly as he giggled and leaned against this man that Combeferre had not seen before.

Combeferre was certain of that: if he had, he would have remembered such striking physiognomy. He was pretty, his eyes large and beguiling, brown and as deep as ocean waters, his lips a cherry red, his cheeks pretty and the colour of cream bar the rose at their apples, and his laugh was a charming, honeyed sound.

"What's wrong with...?" Combeferre gestured to Bahorel, and Courfeyrac shook his head.

"That man is Miljan Montparnasse." Combeferre blinked at him, taken aback.

"Of the Patron Minette?"

"The very one."

"What on Earth is he doing with our boy Jehan?"

"He is friendly with Jehan. Jehan likes him." Bahorel growled, but he did not move closer to intervene despite his obvious irritation. Combeferre frowned, and elected to intervene himself.

"Good evening, Prouvaire." Combeferre said, settling alongside the other two men, feeling old next to both of them for they were both obviously a few years younger than himself, and Prouvaire beamed, his smile angelic.

"Émile! Miljan, this is Émile Combeferre! He is studying to be a  _doctor_."

"A doctor?" Montparnasse repeated, and his voice was sweet, low, melodic, something that had surely lured a hundred men to death with its siren song.

"A doctor." Combeferre confirmed. Montparnasse hummed, and then he leaned, plucking a rose from the bouquet in Combeferre's hands. "Oi! Those are for my mother, if you wil  _refrain_  from thieving the flowers." Montparnasse smirked at him.

"Why, if you are so offended, sweet little student," Combeferre almost laughed. This creature was barely eighteen, and although he was taller than Combeferre, he was certainly lankier and with less muscle on him. "Do feel free to take it back."

And with that, Montparnasse tipped his head back, dropping the rose into its mouth by the stem. Combeferre stared, taken aback, as it slid down until only the head of the flower remained visible, perched like a petalled offering on Montparnasse's pretty lips, and Combeferre was grateful the stem was bereft of thorns, for he was certain Montparnasse would have performed the same trick even if it had not been.

"Dear God, man." Combeferre said, and Prouvaire giggled as he leaned forwards, taking the rose slowly from Montparnasse's throat. "How  _ever_  did you do that without gagging?"

"I've good control of my throat." Montparnasse said with a coquettish wink, and Combeferre felt the boy's slender hand slide up his thigh. "I could show you another trick." Combeferre caught Montparnasse's hand, his grip as tight as it had been on Claquesous' months before.

"I would be careful of throwing that young body of yours at men, boy." Montparnasse looked affronted, and he squared his shoulders and stiffened his jaw, raising his chin to glare at Combeferre. Combeferre was reminded of a kitten having been startled. This was the garroter of Paris? A young creature of less than eighteen even, three years younger than Prouvaire, and six younger than Combeferre?

"I am no boy, and I'd show you, with my cock inside you and my hand on your throat." The young thing snapped, and Combeferre set the rose within the bouquet as Jehan watched them both owlishly, fascinatedly.

"Come." Combeferre said firmly, and he stood. Montparnasse's cheeks were flushed and furious, but he followed after the other man. Combeferre led Montparnasse a few streets away, and then pushed him against the wall in some alley, dropping his flowers on the wall to be recollected once he was done. 

"I could kill you!" Montparnasse growled, and Combeferre hummed, leaning and adjusting Montparnasse's silken cravat with deft fingers.

"I've no doubt you could." He said in a reasonable, rational tone, and then he dipped forwards, holding Montparnasse by his cravat as he captured the murderer's mouth, delighted to feel so pretty, cherry-red lips open against his own.

Combeferre dominated his mouth, tangling a hand in that pretty, well-washed hair and keeping him close, until Montparnasse was whimpering and gasping for air. Combeferre let him back, but kept his hand tight at the other's scalp, and Montparnasse' intakes of air were greedy, his knees weak as he caught Combeferre's neck. 

"I could slit your throat." Montparnasse managed to let out in something of a sigh.

"You won't. If you were to slit my throat, you wouldn't get to feel this." Combeferre said, and he cupped the younger man through his expensive trousers, drawing a choked noise from the very back of his throat. "I fancy you something of a sweetheart, Montparnasse. I fancy that you attempt to throw yourself  at men like me, in bars, in the hope that one of us will set you straight. Do you want your ears boxed, Montparnasse? Or do you want something else beaten?"

Not one of Combeferre's friends was aware of his proclivities, of the certain establishments he frequented on nights where he wished to indulge, and whilst Combeferre was not cruel, not truly, he liked to play at it. And it would seem Montparnasse was a willing recipient of such games.

Montparnasse took in a rasp of breath, and he arched as Combeferre rubbed over his crotch with the heel of his hand, whispering, "God." under his breath. "Yes. Beat me." 

"With my belt? A cane? My hand?"

"Your hand!" Montparnasse whimpered as Combeferre gripped him tightly through his trousers. "Your hand, damn you, your hand."

"You are arresting, sir." Combeferre purred against Montparnasse's kiss-bruised lips, and Montparnasse's inhalation was desperate as he rolled his hips against Combeferre's hand. "Did anyone ever tell you you were pretty?"

"A dozen times. I doubt you've had the same." Combeferre laughed at the jibe, leaning and sucking a red, obvious mark into Montparnasse's neck where his jaw adjoined the slender curve. 

"I have, actually. Once or twice." Combeferre said, his breath hot against the shell of Montparnasse's ear. "I will take you, boy, and I promise you, a medical student such as myself has knowledge enough to set you to screaming. So long as you don't attempt to  _kill_  me." He teased, and Montparnasse's cheeks flushed a brilliant scarlet.

"I shall kill you." He said, and with a hand he tried to stop from shaking, he grasped as Combeferre's cock in the way he'd been cupping Montparnasse. " _La petite mort_."

"You are a tease." Combeferre said, and he thrust his hips into Montparnasse's hand, slow, controlled. "Come home with me."

"Yes, sir." Montparnasse said, and Combeferre was enchanted. He offered the other his hand, and Montparnasse took it readily. The night of Paris enveloped them, and Combeferre was grateful enough for the cloak of darkness hiding their faces from passers-by.

 


End file.
